My mother was a lead kettle and she sang.The sombre notes poured out through her fingers.

Bach in early morning, barely muffledthrough the floorboards. Those days

nothing could soothe her, not the breezeoff the water, not the dampers made of cloth.

She rattled and crashed and rattled and crashedinto herself until the softest part of my mother

was her robe. I held on like the drowninghold on to the drowning, heavy

with expectation that miracles are bornof submissive postures, face down, head in hands.

It is her foot on the pedal that refrains:una corda, una corda: quiet now, it’s almost over.

Crystal Condakes Karlberg is a graduate of the Creative Writing Program at Boston University. Her poems have recently been published in Mom Egg Review (Pushcart nomination), spoKe, and Ekphrastic Review. She teaches middle school English when she isn't writing or practicing karate.